For Selina, it became plain to see, was one of the family no more.  After her first burst of self-reproachful grief she took Mr. Ascott’s view of her nephew’s loss—­that it was a good riddance; went on calmly with her bridal preparations, and seemed only afraid lest any thing should interfere to prevent her marriage.

But the danger was apparently tided over.  No news of Ascott came.  Even the daily inquiries for him by his creditors had ceased.  His Aunt Selina was beginning to breathe freely, when, the morning before the wedding day, as they were all sitting in the midst of white finery, but as sadly and silently as if it were a funeral, a person was suddenly shown in “on business.”

It was a detective officer sent to find out from Ascott Leaf’s aunts whether a certain description of him, in a printed hand-bill, was correct.  For his principal creditor, exasperated, had determined on thus advertising him in the public papers as having “absconded.”

Had a thunder-bolt fallen in the little parlor the three aunts could not have been more utterly overwhelmed.  They made no “scene”—­a certain sense of pride kept these poor gentlewomen from betraying their misery to a strange man; though he was a very civil man, and having delivered himself of his errand, like an automaton, sat looking into his hat, and taking no notice of aught around him.  He was accustomed to this sort of thing.

Hilary was the first to recover herself.  She glanced round at her sisters, but they had not a word to say.  In any crisis of family difficulty they always left her to take the helm.

Rapidly she ran over in her mind all the consequences that would arise from this new trouble—­the public disgrace; Mr. Ascott’s anger and annoyance, not that she cared much for this, except so far as it would affect Selina; lastly, the death-blow it was to any possible hope of reclaiming the poor prodigal.  Who she did not believe was dead, but still, fondly trusted he would return one day from his wanderings and his swine’s husks, to have the fatted calf killed for him and glad tears shed over him.  But after being advertised as “absconded,” Ascott never would, never could, come home any home.

Taking as cool and business-like a tone as she could, she returned the paper to the detective.

“This is a summary proceeding.  Is there no way of avoiding it?”

“One, Miss,” replied the man, very respectfully.  “If the family would pay the debt.”

“Do you know how much it is?”

“Eighty pounds.”

“Ah!”

That hopeless sigh of Johanna’s was sufficient answer, though no one spoke.

But in desperate cases some women acquire a desperate courage, or rather it is less courage than faith—­the faith which is said to “remove mountains”—­the belief that to the very last there must be something to be done, and, if it can be done, they will have strength to do it.  True, the mountain may not be removed, but the mere act of faith, or courage sometimes teaches how to climb over it.